tannertan36
almost home
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ojovivo
KIROKAZE
cherry valley forever
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i don't do bad sauce passes
Monterey Bay Aquarium
d e v o n
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JBB: An Artblog!
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Xuebing Du
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
JVL
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
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@theartofmadeline
Not today Justin
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@somethingsomewhere
the cavernous expanse between what you are, and what you pretend to be.
i feel a vacuum forming between the bone of my spine, and the meat of my stomach.
becoming something mechanical, broken and outdated, but who will fix me besides myself.
i must reach for a more epicurean end, and loose myself of this deadly fantasy.
for if i don't, when they find my body, it will be divorced of its head.
and i will already be flying amongst the golden sunset.
I'm not where you left me, I am with the morning dew, the gems on branches tips.
I am in the wet concrete, glittering with a million stars.
I am dense, and human, and I am a tree, laden with ripe fruit.
I am in it all, and everything is living, and everything is dying, and it is irreversible.
I cannot go back even a single second.
I am unsupervised hope, and I am eager resentment, and I am all of this at once.
Saeed Jones, "Aretha Franklin Hears an Echo While Singing "Save Me", Alive at the End of the World
[ID: poem text reading,
"I'm most dangerous when I'm hungry. I'm most hungry
when I'm hurting. Seems like I'm always hurting. Nothing but teeth. Nothing but the same words calling out to me
in my sleep. Grief asking its ghosts not to leave. Please. It's not up to me when I get to stop crying. Or hurting.
Or holding memories in my mouth, gentle as bees I promised not to eat, but oh, the hurt is so sweet."
/end ID]
i walk along on a loose and swinging rope. every gust of wind brushes against my back and unsettles my feet. i walk and sometimes i am certain i will fall, until the breeze settles. my eyes well with tears and blur my vision. my feet find the next step.
god cannot pry me out of this hole i've made for myself, i scraped it out of the ground on my own, bloody hands and all. i like it here, even with my torn fingernails and calluses, a home just for me, all for me, all mine, all mine, all mine.
you can lie there like a dead leaf, you can, no one will stop you, but you. sometimes its easier to avoid the world, to bury your head in the soft pillow of your bed, no one will stop you, you can sleep forever, dreaming endlessly. who will stop you, no one will stop you. no one, but you.
Cyathia - Cynthia
a flower by any other name, one who stands above, with little ornamentation, but bringing bright color, she who is life giving and delicate, growing through bright leaves and burning sun, hidden, yet unmistakable.
you remember too much, and so it is such, a head full of strings, and too many things, it could be said, that whats in your head, is enough to fill up, kettle and cup, and furthermore, you still a bore, as that mouth of yours, speaking it abhors, but not to fret, i have taken a bet, that book of notes, will be full of quotes.
god is dead, and we will soon follow, he warned of this, so long ago.
the field of which we sprung, has long gone fallow, the storming dark, no long abates.
he said faith has a cost, it takes its toll, for people cannot live, only enriching the soul.
it takes hard labor, from rich and from poor, to grow into people, not wondering what for.
when you look at a far away view, you only see the image of it. a meshing of color and detail that forms what must be the whole image. but some more miles east, and that whole picture shifts into something almost unrecognizable. to claim to see it all is folly, for there will always be other angles.
the worms of the soil, the rabbit in the bush, the bird in the sky, the fish in the sea, the beetle in the moss.
you must accept the short comings of your view, to see that landscape as but a shifting image of nature, an ecosystem in constant flux, a picture come most alive.
you cannot escape grief. it will follow after you like a stray, or dark cloud, hidden beyond the horizon. you will feel yourself falling to your knees, in the stormy woods or sunny street, wind licking tears off your cheeks. it keeps you, it cherishes you, it hoards your happiness like a candle starved of oxygen, a dog starved of food.
all I know is there is blood puddled on the floor, is it mine? anothers? anyway, blood is blood, red as red, a sea of poppies tramped into the dirt, a sign of peace, war yet to be seen, ineffable betrayal, stark violence, stage ending, a new beginning. could i be focusing on the wrong details? quick! look up!
inordinary everyday experiences that will change you:
grief - trying to grasp life while it is slipping from your fingers
love - gritting your teeth to look them in the eye
pain - losing control of the wheel
'death'
you fall through the floor and the sound cuts out like a plunge into deep water joining the chord of the universe, and it vibrates into your bones. it is a hand, a heart, a holy chorus. you know it is beyond strength, it is the end, and it has come for you.
silence breaks and wind howls like an angels choir, waves crashing on the shore in every pause for breath, sun beams twinkling through clouds like chimes. you spread yourself like wings, you are a bird with tiny feathers, tossed about in the storm, and it is asking you to lose your only anchors to search for land.
my heart's been beating fast these days, growing sick from trying to love who i am, nothing but selfish, who gives so she cannot be accused of taking more than she deserves, i want and i want and i want, i desire it all violently, and i wait, i wait and i wake up and i am like a stray dog, belonging to no-one and not daring to ask why. all i know is i am hurting, hurting and not knowing why. heart beats like the flickering of a low blue flame placed by an open window, and the darkness is growing in the room. i look in the mirror, and the black of my pupils stares into me, unashamedly dark and whole. is this all i am?
Mary Oliver's "The Return"
1.
When I went back to the sea
it wasn’t waiting.
Neither had it gone away.
All its musics were safe and sound; the circling gulls
were still a commonplace, the fluted shells
rolled on the shore
more beautiful than money –
oh, yes, more beautiful than money!
The thick-necked seals
stood in the salted waves with their soft, untroubled faces
gazing shoreward –
oh bed of silk,
lie back now on your prairies of blackness your fields of sunlight
that I may look at you.
I am happy to be home.
2.
I do not want to be frisky, and theatrical.
I do not want to go forward in the parade of names.
I do not want to be diligent or necessary or in any way
heavy.
From my mouth to God’s ear, I swear it; I want only
to be a song.
To wander around in the fields like a little reed bird.
To be a song.
3.
Two eggs rolled from the goose nest
down to the water and halfway into the water.
What good is hoping?
I went there softly, and gathered them
and put them back into the nest
of the goose who bit me hard with her
lovely black beak with the pink
tongue-tip quivering,
and beat my arms with her
lovely long wings
and beat my face with her
lovely long wings,
what good is trying?
She hissed horribly, wanting me to be frightened.
I wasn’t frightened.
I just knew it was over,
those cold white eggs would never hatch,
the birds would forget, soon, and go back,
to the light-soaked pond,
what good is remembering?
But I wasn’t frightened.
4.
Sometimes I really believe it, that I am going to
save my life
a little.
5.
When I found the seal pup alone on the far beach,
not sleeping but looking all around, I didn’t
reason it out, for reason would have sent me away,
I just
went close but not too close, and lay down on the sand
with my back toward it, and
pretty soon it rolled over, and rolled over
until the length of its body lay along
the length of my body, and so we touched, and maybe
our breathing together was some kind of heavenly conversation
in God’s delicate and magnifying language, the one
we don’t dare speak out loud,
not yet.
6.
Rumi the poet was a scholar also.
But Shams, his friend, was an angel.
By which I don’t mean anything patient and sweet,
When I read how he took Rumi’s books and threw them
into the duck pond,
I shouted for joy. Time to live now,
Shams meant.
I see him, turning away
casually toward the road, Rumi following, the books
floating and sinking among the screeching ducks,
oh, beautiful book-eating pond!
7.
The country of the mockingbird is where I now want to be,
thank you, yes.
The days when the snow-white swans might pass over the dunes
are the days I want to eat now, slowly and carefully
and with gratitude. Thank you.
The hours fresh and tidal are the hours I want to hold
in the palm of my hand, thank you, yes.
Such grace, thank you!
The gate I want to open now is the one that leads into
the flower-bed of my mind, thank you, yes.
Every day the slow, fresh wind, thank you, yes.
The wing, in the dark, that touches me.
Thank you.
Yes.
Herakles, Euripides (tr. Tom Sleigh)
